Bishkek to Karakoal

A long bumpy drive from Bishkek to Karakoal along the Kazahkstan border produced the following images. It was all wind-scoured planes and jagged purple peaks. Yurts packed with pickled goods for sale on the side of the road. Mud huts under piles of hay, each with a mangy cow standing in a puddle in the yard. It was beautiful country but also barren and unforgiving. The human encampments we passed by were bleak, lots of empty buildings—unfinished piles of bricks, windows gaping open like a hollow eyes and a mouth, evidence of so much industry that collapsed along with the USSR. Every now and then, though, we'd be truly in the middle of nowhere, and we'd come across two women, crouching on their haunches on the side of the road with nothing in sight, one in a fur hat, the other in a brilliant headscarf, both staring off into the expanse. What was thir purpose there? Where was their place? I guess I'll never know.

Lake Issy-Kol, beautiful, yes, but so polluted that eating fish from it has been forbidden for the next three years.

Sylvain, filming scenery from afar.

Cemetaries everywhere, like little cities with elaborate architecture.

Yep, tourists inside! Even our bus said so.

Those peaks are over 20Gs high.

They served up zero vegetarian dishes at this spot.